Page 39 of Riot

Irina turned—and damn near choked.

“Holy. Shit.” she gasped, eyes wide. “You’re a whole bombshell.”

I flushed, but this wasn’t embarrassment. This was heat. This was pride rising in my chest like something I hadn’t felt in years. It was like my soul had reentered my body and decided to stay.

Irina moved closer and whistled low. “Okay, no. We’re calling in backup. You’re getting your face beat immediately.”

She reached for her phone, dialing her glam squad like it was a national emergency.

And all I could do was nod, fighting the sting in my throat.

Because for the first time in over a decade… I wasn’t the Virgin.

I wasn’t Boaz’s property.

I wasn’t some clean pair of hands hiding pain behind white fabric.

I wasme.

And the world?

Was about to meet me too.

The makeup artist worked in quiet concentration, brushes moving with the grace of a painter who knew their canvas. I satstill, heart thrumming with a mix of anxiety and awe as he swept deep plum shadows over my lids, blending them into a velvety black smoke. A single silver shimmer traced the center of each eyelid like a secret. My lashes were long, feathery, dramatic. My cheekbones glowed. And when he applied the final stroke—a bold, satin-matte red lip—I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.

My skin? Immaculate. Smooth as mahogany. Luminous.

My lips? Full and powerful. Like they held stories instead of prayers.

When he turned the mirror toward me, my breath caught.

I looked...dangerous.

I looked like someone who couldn’t be bought, couldn’t be caged.

“You’re gonna break necks tonight,” the makeup artist murmured with a wink.

Irina clapped her hands behind me. “Are you seeing this? You look like revenge. Like the kind of woman who ruins lives on purpose.”

And for once, I wasn’t hiding behind humility.

I smiled.

And meant it.

The Gilded Cage was already pulsing by the time we arrived. Music thrummed low, like a seductive heartbeat beneath the floor. The air was cool and heavy with money and perfume—dark florals, expensive oud, something citrusy in the corners. Bodies swayed under golden chandeliers, their laughter bouncing between velvet walls and glass fixtures.

As soon as Irina walked in, the attention shifted. Everyone turned—of course they did. She was the birthday girl. The heiress. The storm in heels.

People swarmed her with kisses, gifts, compliments. A blur of designer fabrics and camera flashes.

She turned back and grabbed my hand, her fingers tight around mine. “Come meet him.”

“Him?” I asked, breath catching.

“My boyfriend, Rollo.”

She dragged me past a circle of people laughing over cocktails and toward a corner where two men stood—both tall, both dressed in suits that cost more than I’d probably earn in a year… if I ever had the chance to work.

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